


Here by my side

by Saetha



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Bofa, at least most of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the Battle of Five Armies, Dwalin helps Thorin to put on his armour before the fight begins, as he has done countless times before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here by my side

**Author's Note:**

> This was brought to you by tons of OTP pain, one of my favourite scenes from The Two Towers (shortly before the Battle of Helm's Deep - a line of dialogue was also taken from there and can therefore not be claimed as mine), the notion that Thorin fully knows that he is unlikely to return and a lot of angst.

Dwalin's grip was firm as his hand landed on Thorin's shoulder, testing the proper seat of his chainmail. His king had always hated breast plates and other stiff armour, claiming they restricted his movements too much. A lifetime spent experiencing his stubbornness had taught Dwalin that it would be all but useless to argue the point.

The battle outside had already begun, shouts rising up them, accompanied by the clangs of metal on iron and the first shrieks of pain. It was a strange feeling, not being on the battlefield already - they always had been amongst the first to charge, never staying behind where their help was needed. And where Thorin went, Dwalin went too, for he was his sword and his shield, forming a perfect unity in battle with his friend that even the strongest lines of the enemy could not break.

They had gone through the routine of getting ready to fight so many times by now that words were barely necessary. Not even the new pieces they had gathered from Erebor's armoury changed much of the process. Ever since Azanulbizar they had taken a certain amount of comfort in preparing for battle together, the familiarity of the same actions soothing their minds and quietly reassuring themselves of their bond.

Dwalin secured his king's bracers with one last tug and stepped back to observe the result. Thorin had consciously stayed away from any golden or too heavily ornamented armour, choosing practical pieces of clothing and protection instead with only a hint of the engravings private to the royal line. Dwalin's own armour was similar in the aspects of its functionality - plain, but of fine craftsmanship sure to withstand more than one strike from an orcish blade.

The warrior's brows furrowed when he looked at Thorin, a light worry tugging at his heart that he tried to silence with a quick thought. The last days seemed to have changed his friend's appearance more than all the decades before together. There was more silver in his hair now and a shadow in his eyes he had never seen there before. An invisible weight seemed to have settled down on his shoulders, casting a hint of grey over his features and hollowing out his cheeks. Once again Dwalin found himself cursing their bloodline, the slumbering sickness in the royal blood that had finally broken through a hundred and eighty-year old defences and taken hold of his king's heart. He knew that the guilt over all that Thorin had done would eventually threaten to tear him apart, forever tainting his reign as King Under the Mountain. It would take more than kind gestures and a battle fought at the side of their former adversaries to repair what had been broken. Dwalin hoped that eventually time would help to mend what his words and love could not. He hoped he would one day see his king smile again, his face free of all worry.

The warrior felt the lines on his face soften when he thought about Thorin's voice once again filling the great halls of their ancient home with the echoes of his singing and the slow notes of his harp. There was a longing in his soul when he beheld the thought of a crown upon his king's head that one day Fíli would wear and the peace and time together they would finally have after over a hundred and fifty years of waiting in exile.

Thorin shifted slightly and avoided the tall dwarf's gaze. He had clearly seen the yearning in Dwalin's face and found himself unable to echo it with hope of his own. There were heavy clouds darkening the blue of his eyes as he uselessly verified the fit of his bracers once again. Dwalin knew they had to leave soon; the others would be ready in a short while and the longer they waited, the more lives would be lost on the battlefield outside. But there was something different about Thorin this time, something that had not been there in any of the other battles they had fought together previously. He had always been able to read his friend like an open book; but now his heart refused to acknowledge what his mind was telling him.

With a single step Dwalin crossed the distance between them, putting his hands on Thorin's shoulders and gripping them with all his might, the rings of the chainmail cutting into his hands under the fabric.

"Thorin."

At the sound of his voice his king finally looked up. Dwalin tried to let his own confidence flow through his touch, to help chase away the shadows on Thorin's features.

"No matter what happened, you're still our king, Thorin. Every single dwarf of our company has chosen to follow you out of their own free will and their loyalty will not be swayed by a madness that was not of your own doing. We will follow you, all of us, to whatever end."

"To whatever end..." Thorin's voice trailed off. Dwalin could almost hear the voices raging in his friend's head, shouting how he didn't deserve such loyalty, such determination and how one as weak as him could never be king. He had spent a hundred and seventy years sharing his king's burden and quieting those voices with the touch of his hands and the strength of his own reassurance, so he knew them as well by now as if they were his own.

Dwalin forced a smile on his face, knowing it would serve to lighten the burden on Thorin's heart if only a little bit. Then he gently pulled him close into a last kiss, trusting his body to say all the words his mind had been unable to form. There was a tinge of desperation in Thorin's mouth beneath the sweet taste of iron and wood. As if he was clinging onto a dream long since fallen apart and crumbled to dust between his fingers.

"We will be victorious, my king." he whispered, his hands curled into his hair and thumbs tracing the curve of his cheek.

Thorin's smile didn't clear the storm in his eyes, nor did it draw the quiet sadness from his features. But it was there nonetheless, the first smile Dwalin had seen from him in more than a week and that in itself was enough to give him heart.

His king lifted his hand as they rested their foreheads together, cupping his chin and following its shape back to his ear. He drew his fingers along the earlobe, stopping as they reached one of the two clasps and gently rubbing across the cold metal. For a second, a memory rose up within Dwalin, of a quiet spring evening, of rain pattering the window panes and a small fire in the hearth. Of three clasps on a calloused palm, the light of the fire reflected on the silver and in eyes mirroring the clear blue of a summer's sky. Of an unspoken question answered with a kiss and a promise and a gentle hand fastening the clasps on the lobes of his ears, just as their counterparts had found their place on Thorin's.

They had never taken them off since that day, forever a symbol of the life they had led together, of decades spent in quiet unison, years that had been filled to the brim with all that life had offer, happiness and tears, birth and death, pain and love.

Then Thorin's touch on his skin was gone, a single trace of regret in his eyes before a cold fire was kindled in them, fuelled by the wrath at the creatures waiting outside on the battlefield.

"Forgive me."

Dwalin had no time to reply to his words before Thorin drew himself up and stepped out of the doorway to where the others were waiting, now fully King Under the Mountain. He was the leader his companions needed now, the dwarf they would follow to death and beyond if need be.

Only much later, when he cradled his fallen king's dying body in his arms and listened to the last breath escaping his lungs he truly understood what those words had meant. By then, however, it was far too late and all that was left were words remaining forever unsaid.


End file.
